The Cabin
by IFiWEREaROBOT
Summary: Shaun Hastings is not a very agreeable man. Stick him in a small cabin with an oblivious novice assassin cum bartender, and you've got a recipe for disaster. Post-ACII
1. Transporting the Goods

**Author's Note:** I just finished Assassin's Creed II, and the whole plot of the series is still very shaky for me, so forgive me if the details and characterization are a bit shaky. OTL;; I am very interested in the character of Shaun Hastings, who offers help throughout the game and is seen in a few cutscenes in the modern segments of the game. He is very humorous, and I hope to capture even just a little of him in this story. It takes place right after the end of the second game. Wish me luck!

**Transporting the Goods**

They'd been driving for hours now, switching "shifts" between the three of them periodically. Desmond might have had a turn as well, but he wasn't currently with them- in mind, at least. He was still encased in his own little world, in Italy circa 1490. Shaun knew he ought to be asleep, but he couldn't help but watch the newest member of their team work his magic on Rebecca's innocuous contraption. It looked like a lounge chair, with soft red cushions, but Desmond was as still as a corpse on an autopsy table. Only it wasn't his body they were probing, it was his mind, his genes, his very existence- because the fate of the world depended on the secrets locked away inside him.

Shaun briefly wondered if he should be concerned that Desmond hadn't stirred yet- one of the signs that the Animus session should end soon- but he hardly understood the "risks" that the Animus entailed. To him, all he saw was a man in a recliner reliving a few memories to no danger of his own life, while countless others- in_ real_ life- risked their lives to keep him safe in his little fantasy simulation. Shaun was relatively new to all this Assassin business compared to the others, and even if he had been working with Rebecca for years now, he still had no clearer idea of how the Animus actually functioned. He was the researcher, the historian, the one who kept all the facts in check. _Let the girls play with their toys._

Still, he could not shake the unsettling feeling he got around the Animus. He'd never been a man of religion, but the thing gave off an almost unholy aura. The theory of it seemed simple enough, but Shaun felt like they were playing God in someway, tampering with the very building blocks of life. He knew from years of study what happened to men who had the power of gods in their hands; he can still remember finding Desmond passed out in the hall like some discarded rag doll after his first session in the Animus 2.0, remembers the dazed, feverish look in his eyes just hours ago as he demanded to be put back under, refusing to be separated from his memories. _Perhaps the Animus was more taxing than he once thought; maybe Desmond was more dedicated to their cause than he realized...._

Yet as Shaun watched Desmond's peaceful face in the dim twilight sun, it only looked like the man was sleeping._ Such a fool. _He disregarded all previous, newfound respect towards the man as mere sleep-deprived musings and layed down on his cot instead, letting the turbulence of the rocky hillside beneath the wheels of the truck lull him to sleep.


	2. Moving In

**Moving In**

Shaun wasn't usually a morning person- not without tea, at least- but the fact that his wake-up call was Rebecca made him even more irritable. She shook him roughly by the shoulder and once he opened his eyes he was greeted with a blinding beam of light and her grating voice sing-songing, "wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey!" At first he thought it was morning already, but then she moved the flashlight away and the truck became pitch black.

"We're here," Lucy whispered somewhere nearby. He heard her feel around for Desmond in his cot, but the rustling stopped as abruptly as it started. His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could see the faint outline of Lucy looming over Rebecca and himself.

"Has he been in the Animus this whole time?" she asked them sharply. No doubt her temper was short due to the fact that she had been the last one driving. That and her- what Shaun believed to be- unnatural attachment to Desmond. Shaun shrugged, before he remembered that the motion probably wouldn't be very visible in the dark and retorted sarcastically, "Well, I suppose so. Maybe he thought the Animus would be more comfortable than the cots." Lucy tried to suppress it, but a muted noise of disapproval escaped her as she quickly made her way to the Animus terminal and flicked it on. The brightness of the screen bathed the interior of the truck in a harsh, blue-white light, and the thin sheen of swear on Desmond's forehead shined underneath it.

"Shit,," Lucy swore quietly and her fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur. "I'm taking you out, Desmond," she spoke into the microphone calmly, but the frantic pace of her hands betrayed her worry. The second his eyes were open she yanked the cord out of his arm, making him flinch for a split second.

"What's wrong...?" Desmond asked groggily and rubbed his arm. If Shaun didn't know any better, he'd have thought that he really had fallen asleep in the Animus.

"We're here," Lucy repeated softly, the relief evident in her voice when she realized that Desmond was finally conscious again.

"Oh..." He sat up slowly and rolled his shoulders to work the kinds out, his spine cracking with a series of disgusting pops. If there was one thing that got on Shaun's nerves the most, it was people who cracked their fingers and backs. It was absolutely _irritating._

Luckily, he didn't have to deal with Desmond for very long. Rebecca recruited him for unloading the Animus 2.0 itself, because she didn't trust anyone else with laying their hands on her "baby", and Shaun likewise forced her to help him move all of his computer equipment, because he just didn't trust Desmond in general. Lucy was directing Desmond where to put everything else down, taking advantage of his brute strength and murmuring small explanations for each piece of equipment when he asked.

"That should do it," Lucy announced once the Animus 2.0 and its various paraphernalia were in place. The set-up was similar to the one back at the warehouse, only less attractive and more barren. They hadn't been able to bring everything, just the bare necessities, and Shaun was sorely missing his favorite desklamp. "Now then. Desmond, you can take a tour of the place if you like while we boot all this up. Rebecca, I'm going to need you to stay with me and make sure nothing was damaged from the ride over. Shaun, we won't need you until later, so would you mind showing Desmond around?"

_Great._ That was just what he had been hoping to avoid, a little quality time with Lucy's pet subject.

"Oh, of course, because I really have_ nothing_ better to do. I would just absolutely _love_ to play tour guide right about now," Shaun drawled sarcastically. Even he knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but he hoped that if he was a big enough prick about it that Desmond would get angry and go off on his own instead.

"Shaun," Lucy's tone was warning and he could see Rebecca grinning impishly over her shoulder. She was probably enjoying this, that stupid little-

"Fine." Shaun sighed and held his hands up in defeat. "I'll give your little boyfriend the grand tour. Come along then, Desmond." He started walking towards the door without bothering to check if Desmond was following or not and snapped his fingers impatiently. "You better keep up!"

Desmond gave Lucy a pleading look, but she smiled amusedly and shook her head. _You'll get used to him,_ she mouthed silently. Desmond grimaced and reluctantly jogged after his guide.

He certainly hoped not.


	3. The Grand Tour

**The Grand Tour**

Shaun figured that the inside of the cabin itself was pretty simple to navigate, so he just went straight to what he thought was most relevant to Desmond's interests.

"This is where you can practice." He stopped in front of a large, fenced in area. A good portion of it to the right was some sort of militant obstacle course, along with the stereotypical "army crawl" nets. "You'll be using the obstacle course after every session-"

"For what?" Desmond interrupted. Shaun gritted his teeth slightly, annoyed by the interruption, and took a deep breath before answering.

"For you, of course." This only seemed to confused Desmond more.

_"Me?_" He seemed incredulous by the very idea of it. "But I thought that the bleeding eff-"

"Yes, yes. You've got most of your ancestor's_ skills_, certainly, but not the means to execute them. I doubt you get much exercise when you mix drinks, so just because you know_ how_ to do something doesn't mean you_ can_. Ezio had some 20 odd years to hone his body, while _you_, my friend, have only been laying down in that bloody machine for about a week. And we can't build muscle like that, now can we?" Desmond's jaw had fallen ajar about half-way through Shaun's rant- which Shaun was somewhat breathless by the end of, since he didn't want to pause and be interrupted again- and it was obvious by his shocked expression that he was still scrambling for some kind of comeback. Shaun decided to save the poor thing from the embarrassment of his own lack of wit and continued his "tour".

"Anyway. This is for target practice," he explained with a small gesture of his hand towards the left of the field. There were poles of differing heights driven into the ground at specific intervals, each adorned with what seemed to be target dummy sheets borrowed- or stolen, considering Rebecca's sticky fingers- from police shooting ranges. Desmond wandered towards it to get a better look at them and tilted his head to the side curiously.

"For... throwing knives?" he added cautiously. Shaun let out a short, bark of a laugh and shook his head.

"For _guns_," he corrected dryly."Is your brain still stuck in the Medieval Ages? We assassin's do use modern technology now, you know." For some reason, this seemed to impress and surprise Desmond, although Shaun didn't have the faintest idea why.

"You do?"

"Yes, we do," Shaun repeated in exasperation. "We have to keep up with the times, after a-"

"No," Desmond cut him off again. That was starting to get very annoying, very quickly. "I meant... _you_ do?" Shaun finally realized what Desmond was trying to get at. He obviously didn't expect the pretty little English boy with glasses to hold his own with a gun.

"I've told you once, Desmond, and I'll tell you again. I _have_ killed before and I won't hesitate to repeat the experience. I am still an assassin, even if I am working a desk job at the moment." Shaun smirked wryly and lifted the hem of his sweater a little, revealing the small gun holster at his waist. "Even an old bookworm like me knows a thing or two about guns. Which is probably whole lot more than you, anyway," he added thoughtfully. Desmond scowled and glared angrily at him, but Shaun ignored him pointedly by taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt innocuously.

"Now then. That ought to hold you over for now. You must be awfully tired by now." Shaun's tone had taken a decidedly pleasanter tone now that he had an opening to escape Desmond's _wonderful_ company. "A big boy like you ought to be able to find the bedroom all by himself, yes? Of course." Shaun patted Desmond on the shoulder and brushed by him rudely, ending his grand tour as quickly as he had begun it. Not that Desmond minded the abrupt end. He made no move at all to follow him back inside, just stared hard at the target sheets and tried to imagine that the bullseye on the printed skull was Shaun's face instead.

He only hoped that they wouldn't be staying here for too long.


	4. Between a Rock and a Hard Place

**Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

Sadly, the odds were against Desmond. Lucy informed him that they would need to uncover a few more memories to check Ezio's movement in the time line and figure out where his next relevant descendant ought to be. He wanted to get to work right away so that they could start looking for those vaults _(and get out of this godforsaken cabin) _but he soon learned that the breaks Lucy had allowed him back at the warehouse were as much for his sanity as they were for the machine- and that the Animus had warmed up considerably over the few hours he had used it in the truck.

"It needs a cool down period," Lucy coolly explained before shooing him off to bed. Desmond hesitated at the old suggestion. It was eerily reminiscent of the time he had spent at Abstergo, and he really wasn't that tired at all, but Lucy was determined to get him to rest. "Unless you _want _it to crash while you're in it?" That got him. Desmond shuffled down the hall, grumbling inaudibly to himself about how much time he spent horizontal lately.

There were only three doors in the hallway, all unpainted, sanded down panels of wood slightly sunken into the walls. He opened the closest door to him and fumbled for a switch on the wall inside, flicking the little plastic nub once he had gotten hold of it. The room was filled with pale yellow light that flickered unsteadily and he assumed this was the bathroom judging by the toilet and sink in the corner. It was a very small bathroom seeing as the standing shower took up nearly half the room, but he was grateful that he at least wouldn't have to use an outhouse.

The next door turned out to be slightly larger and there were two cots pressed to either wall opposite from each other. He recognized Lucy's small travel bag on one of them and a small sensation of dread began to spread through out his stomach when he realized_ (even if it was only a hunch at the time)_ that there were only two rooms, and four of _them_. Two rooms; two men and two women. He would swear on Altaïr's grave that Rebecca would be sleeping on that other cot. Which only left the last room for Desmond and...

"Did you get lost after all?" Shaun's biting tone was the first thing that greeted him when he opened the door (it creaked like a dying frog at the smallest touch) and Desmond grimaced visibly when he spotted the British man lounging on his cot with a stack of notes in his lap. He really didn't understand why Shaun was always such a jerk to him and when he tried to think of something he could have possibly done wrong to piss him off so much, all he could think of was the first time they had met; when had called his pile of papers "stuff". That didn't seem like a very good reason to hate someone, so he just chalked it up to Shaun having a stick up his ass and left it at that.

"No," Desmond said dryly and rolled his eyes. The only way he could see himself surviving this place was if he never spoke to Shaun again. Ever. It didn't seem that hard in theory, all he would have to do is nod or shake his head if Shaun asked him something, and flip him off if he insulted him. It was fool proof plan! He decided to enforce right then and there.

"Desmond?" Desmond turned his head away, purposefully looking anywhere but at Shaun, and flopped down on his bed with his arms crossed. He knew it was childish, but his new roommate tended to bring out the worst in him. It was quiet for a long time, and only when Desmond was slowly being lulled to sleep by the soft sounds of papers rustling did Shaun speak again.

"You better not snore." Desmond's eyes snapped open and he almost told him to 'fuck off' when he remembered his plan. Resisting the urge to retort, he rolled over onto his side angrily and raised his hand high in the air; only one finger was lifted in an eloquent gesture.

Shaun's caustic chuckles were the last thing Desmond heard before he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Things That Go Bump in the Night

**Things That Go Bump in the Night**

It was dark, but comfortably so, like he had just turned off the lights in a room he knew like the back of his hand. The room in question was a wide resonating chamber that expanded and contracted with a heavy pulse; the air vibrated energetically with chaotic music that grated his ears and lusty feminine moans that piqued his interest. Then the noise gave way to light, physically manifesting itself in colorful rays from strobe lights overhead. It was never the same club, never the same song, but when it came down to the wire, nothing really ever changed.

A myriad of young and handsome men and women twirled across the floor in a never ending torrent of movement, their hips shaking and legs twisting and arms waving mindlessly to the rhythm in the warm smoggy air, their too-bare skin clothed only in a thin layer of sweat that shined and caught the light. One such girl approached him in the confusion, leaned over the long counter that served as a professional barrier between him and the fray, and held out her thin glowing arms to him in the dark with a twinkling laugh that broke through the dull roar with surprisingly clarity.

She called for a drink- no, a whole round of drinks for everyone at the bar, and the mob that suddenly swarmed up to the counter cheered at her generosity. She grinned like a cheshire cat, her pearly white teeth shining bright underneath the blacklight, and tossed a thin plastic card at him without a care in the world. Beautifully careless, unabashedly decadent, and the party raged on, increasing in intensity as moral boundaries weakened and wavered.

The heady drinks and dazzling lights incited sparks of passion that might not have existed at any other time, anywhere else in the world. His foot tapped idly as he poured yet another love elixir for a hapless, acne-ridden teen down on his luck. Desmond didn't care that his ID was fake. He wasn't here to ask questions, he was here to answer the never ending plea for an easy escape, this blissful paradise of numbness in a bottle. The girl from before reappeared, like a fantastic, recurring dream, and beckoned Desmond to follow her with a coquettish gesture of her pointer finger. The lukewarm alcohol overfilled and spilled all over his fingers, but he cast both the cup and bottle aside and slid over the sticky counter eagerly to oblige her instead.

She grabbed his wrist with untold strength and dragged him into the writhing mass of skin and sweat. He held her slim figure against his chest protectively, his hands resting on her rolling hips as he danced her across the floor, weaving around lip-locked couples grinding shamelessly in the anonymity of numbers. Desmond had more patience and decency than that, but not much more; he waited until they were in the narrow hallway that led up to the restrooms, the dim yellow light flickering and fizzing as gnats and flies were drawn up into its sickly glow.

The whole place reeked of piss and vomit but he didn't care and neither did she when he pressed her against the gritty wall-_ just like that_- and kissed her soundly on her cherry red mouth. She could be anyone, this charming stranger; she could be someone's sister, daughter, maybe even girlfriend, but all that mattered was that she was his for tonight. He boldly slid his hand up her thigh, feeling the warm damp skin underneath her skirt, and she nipped at the scar on his mouth endearingly.

"Crystal," she murmured softly in a voice made husky from alcohol, answering his unspoken question. Desmond licked his dry lips briefly before replying, "Daniel," without a moment's hesitation. She laughed that chiming laugh again and pulled him closer. "Daniel, huh? I like that," she whispered into his ear, and then, "I like you, Daniel." And that was all it took, all she had to say to twist Desmond's head in a mess and start his heart pounding in childish excitement.

Desmond took her to the parking lot, took her to his car, took out his keys and opened the door, and then he /took/ her. It didn't matter if he didn't see her again after tonight, or if she didn't know his name, or if he was moving out of his small apartment tomorrow and the boxes were already packed and his two week notice had been filed two weeks ago, because _this _was the life; the fleeting, ephemeral life that had eluded him so long ago.

Crystal sifted through his fingers like a handful of fine jewels, tinkling and jingling and sparkly wonderfully as the muted music throbbed nearby. He didn't even have to think, it was like dancing- senseless and instinctive and messy and somehow _graceful_. He wished these moments could last forever and he carefully soaked it in, knowing that he couldn't stay for long. The Farm dragged behind him like a heavy shadow; his past nipped at his heels bitterly and tainted his crystalline dreams. The night swelled and burst and suddenly the magical glow of the evening faded back into the mundane; the crystal that glittering in his hands turned to cheap glass that shattered under his touch. The blinking the clock on his dashboard read four in the morning and he opened the door for the girl out of habit after she had fixed her hair and clothes.

"Do you want to get coffee tomorrow?" she suggested, her tinny voice sounding entirely too loud and shrill in the quiet darkness. Desmond smirked jadedly and told her plainly, "I'm moving." She seemed surprised.

"You never said anything about that," she accused suddenly, as if she wouldn't have slept with him if she had known. Desmond glanced at the eyeliner streaked down her flushed cheek, her sweat soaked blouse, the dark beer stain on her denim skirt, and shrugged indifferently.

"You never asked." Her pretty little face contorted in petty rage and she called him a few choice names and spat on his car before storming back inside. He watched as the door to the club closed slowly and the teeming masses absorbed her like a living entity, and then suddenly the senseless techno warped and twisted into violins and laughter. Extravagantly dressed men and women glided across the floor in the fresh night air, fireworks filling the glittering black sky and illuminating their finely crafted masks and silks. Desmond gripped the steering wheel tightly and blinked his eyes hard until he was back in the dim parking structure, his heart racing and fingers shaking.

Something heavy thumped against his door and he sprung away from it automatically, his head turning towards the source of the noise in trepidation. A shadowy figure appeared at his window with surprising intensity, the mere presence of it being more than enough to knock the breath out of him. He scrambled for the locks and stepped on the gas, but his car didn't move. The shadow began to morph into the shape of a man and Desmond's terror grew with each new feature. He struggled with his seat belt, a hot wet panic building up in his eyes when he only succeeded on making it tighter.

"Oh god- oh shit- oh fuck-" Desmond swore frantically and looked up against his will. The silhouette had taken the form of a familiar white reaper glowing sinisterly in the dark and it reached inside the car easily, its arm sliding through the glass like air. Four brown, calloused fingers closed around his throat and Desmond choked on a scream; the hooded face drew closer, its scarred lips twisted into a scowl, and hissed quietly in Arabic, "You cannot run." The fingers tightened and Desmond's heart skipped a beat when he heard a familiar mechanical click and the whir of gears that followed. The last thing he heard was the swish of a small blade cutting through the air and his own guttural scream that finally managed to escape before-

A sharp, blunt pain bloomed across his cheek.

"Desmond! Wake up!" Someone was shouting his name now, firm hands gripped shoulders and shook him hard. Desmond's eyes snapped open with a start and he suddenly found himself in a quiet, dark room, the moonlight spilling in through the small window and casting a pale glow on the tall figure looming over his bed. It raised its hand as if it were going to slap him again and Desmond sat up quickly and shoved it away.

"Shit- what the hell is wrong with you?" It sounded as if it had a male, British accent, and as Desmond's eyes began to adjust to the dark he realized that it was Shaun who had assaulted him in the middle of the night.

"What the hell is wrong with _me_? What's wrong with_ you_?!" Desmond snapped, temporarily forgetting his no talking rule. He narrowed his eyes and cupped his throbbing cheek gingerly, baring his teeth in a quiet growl. "Did you just fucking slap me?"

"_I_ wasn't the one screaming bloody murder in my sleep," Shaun retorted irritably and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. He looked tired and disgruntled, like he had just barely fallen asleep not too long ago. Desmond's face felt warm after that accusation and he touched the edge of the cot for reassurance, glancing around the room for something familiar to calm his racing pulse. There was nothing. Well, nothing but Shaun. He looked up at the other man hesitantly when he ran out of options and the gnawing panic in the back of his mind slowly melted away when Shaun gave him his typical _'you're-a-fucking-moron'_ look.

The normality of it was somehow hilarious and Desmond found himself bursting into a hysterical fit of laughter, the panicked tears built up in the corners of his eyes streaming down his face uncontrollably. Shaun's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but this new expression was even more ridiculous than the last and Desmond only laughed harder, the hard breaths melting into choking sobs.

"He- he was gonna kill me- shit, he almost fucking killed me-" The words were spilling out now in a jumbled mess and he shook his head back and forth as that white hood flashed before his eyes again for a split second. There was a hurried series of knocks on the door not a moment later.

"Desmond? Shaun?" It was Lucy. Shaun briefly wondered why she hadn't turned up earlier, but he figured that she probably trusted him to handle the situation. "Are you guys okay in there?" He worked his mouth in the thought and glanced skeptically at Desmond, who was looking at him with a wet, wide-eyed stare like a deer caught in the headlights. Some unknown emotion flashed across his eyes and he mouthed silently, 'tell her I'm fine'. Shaun quirked his eyebrow curiously and shrugged before turning back to the door.

"Yeah, the idiot just fell off his cot," he called back to her with a smirk. They could hear Lucy sigh and chuckle from the other side of the door, and then her soft footsteps retreated down the hall. Shaun waited until her door clicked shut before rounding on Desmond again.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently.

"Well _what_?" Desmond replied defensively with a scowl. He roughly wiped his face off on the sleeves of his hoodie and Shaun sighed in exasperation. He was too tired to deal with this kind of shit so early in the morning, and he really didn't care enough to investigate further.

"I advise you to get yourself a bloody stuffed animal," Shaun grumbled and rolled his eyes, slipping back into his cot quietly. Desmond snorted and wriggled back under his blanket, his red-rimmed eyes staring at the ceiling blankly. He already knew that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, but once he heard Shaun's breathing slow he quietly whispered, "Thanks... asshole."


	6. Morning Sickness

**Morning Sickness**

The first morning at the cabin was definitely the strangest. Desmond's aching eyes opened slowly- _he couldn't remember when he had closed them_- and he stared at the dusty ceiling in confusion, a slow panic creeping into his heart like cold molasses. The room smelled old and stale, a cold air drifted in through the gaps in the walls and dragged the scent of wet leaves and dirt across his nose, and he struggled through the sleepy haze to figure out where he was.

Impossible answers ran through his mind without reason- _Maysaf, Monteriggioni, the Farm Acre, Jerusalem, Rome, Damascus, Firenze, Sam Gimignano_- and then the last few hectic weeks all came rushing back to him at once; the ambush on the way back to his car late after work, the sterile rooms and cold surface of the animus under his back, Lucy's missing finger and the red stains on her clothes, being locked in a hot suffocating trunk, Rebecca's infectious laughter and cheerfulness, Shaun's sharp eyes and words, the warm blood that covered his hands when he first dug that hidden blade into an Abstergo guard's neck, the cabin's dingy walls and flickering lights.

The new wave of information hit him with almost tangible force and the room started spinning out of control, faster and faster until his stomach churned dizzily in discomfort. He rolled out of bed hurriedly and hit the floor with a painful thud, but he was scrambling to his feet and down the hall not a moment later. He barely even made it to the bathroom before he found himself vomiting in the small dingy toilet that he had been so thankful to have found last night. Everything felt sore and his own skin felt revolting to him; his breath came out in rank, ragged pants, but when Lucy knocked on the bathroom door to see what the commotion was he forced himself to take a deep breath and croak out a weak excuse. He didn't remember what he said, but it must have been enough because she left him alone. Or maybe it was Shaun who had chased her off when he coldly remarked, "You baby him too much."

Whatever the reason, Desmond was glad for the peace and quiet. He licked his lips distractedly and regretted it not soon after, the sharp acidic taste on his tongue making him gag in disgust. He pulled himself up to the sink shakily, splashed his face with cold water and rinsed out his mouth, but much to his surprise the 'sleepy' haze didn't go away. The room looked dark and smoky even though he knew he turned the lights on and he felt unusually stupid, like everything was happening very slowly. Still disoriented, he stumbled out into the hall and reached his hand out for the wall, trying to find something sturdy to hold him up even as the room began melting into tones of blue and black. Red designs crawled up the walls like vines, familiar secrets and codes that he knew didn't belong there, and a phantom horse galloped _through _him in a hurry, the dim sounds of screams following close behind it.

"'s not real, 's not real..." Desmond murmured in a clumsy, husky drawl and clenched his eyes shut tightly as the pressure in his skull pushed harder, but the images still boldly invaded the darkness, brighter and clearer than ever, and the screaming grew louder and sharper like he was right in the middle of a Holocaust. He clung to the wall tightly and counted to thirty- _because hadn't Lucy said there wasn't anything to worry about?_- but by the time he got to forty he couldn't even think straight. The howling reached a terrible crescendo and the bile crawled up his throat, hot and thick, and he couldn't help but whimper pathetically and thump his head against the wall, the sudden pain cutting through the fog in his mind like a sharp knife.

He didn't know whether to feel fortunate or cursed that it was Shaun who found him like this.

"What are you doing now?" His incredulous tone wiped away the last dregs of confusion and all Desmond was left with afterward was a vague sensation of despair and a really big head ache. Desmond suppressed a groan and rubbed his forehead with the flat of his palm.

"Nothin', I jus'..." he waved his hand in the hair in a vague sort of gesture, trying to think of a convenient excuse. "I tripped," he finished plainly and Shaun snorted in disbelief.

"I'm sure you did," the British man replied evenly and strolled up to him with the same contemptuous pride that he did everything with. Desmond flinched for a split second, half-expecting another slap across the face, but was surprised when Shaun took out a tissue from his pocket and tossed it at him.

"Clean yourself up. You look like a mess." Desmond blinked stupidly at the odd request and nodded, absentmindedly wiping away the sweat on his forehead without question. He crumpled it up when he was done and shoved it in his back pocket, and only when Shaun deemed him presentable did he choose to tell him, "Lucy wants to see you." Desmond grimaced slightly because he knew it had something to with the Animus 2.0, but he couldn't refuse without raising some suspicion. He was starting to regret how eager he had been to get into it last night.

"Right," Desmond rubbed his nose distractedly and nodded, pushing by Shaun when he refused to move out of his way. A firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks and he heard that British accent mutter quietly in his ear, "If you don't tell Lucy about these little episodes of yours, I will." Desmond swallowed hard and glared at him over his shoulder.

"She already knows," he lied, trying to keep his voice steady. "She told me I had nothing to worry about if the hallucinations lasted less than thirty seconds. It's a normal side effect."

"And the nightmares?" That struck a little too close to home.

"None of your goddamn business," Desmond snapped and shrugged his hand off his shoulder roughly. He stormed down the hall as quickly as he could without looking like he was running away, only stopping when he couldn't hear Shaun's loafers clicking behind him anymore. He stopped in front of the door that led to the "Animus Room" (as he'd fondly dubbed it) and leaned against the wall for a moment to collect his nerves, a shaky sigh escaping him.

"There's nothing to worry about..." He hoped to god that Lucy's thirty second rule had a ten second allowance to it.


End file.
